(This is our second run of “The Tantrum,” in which each of our four regulars will address one subject over the course of a week. Previous Tantrum: TV or not TV?)

Baby jail.

When I was a kid, I did some bad things. I mean, not very bad, but not great. Once in a while, I shoplifted porn mags and lighters from the Dairy Mart around the corner. I skipped the last day of ninth grade. The cops once came thisclose to arresting me and some friends for skateboarding in an abandoned school. And I regularly drove our family’s Toyota Tercel 150 miles to Washington, D.C., without letting my parents know.

I did not, as far as I can remember, fill my underwear with plastic explosives and attempt to blow up a jetliner. But then again, there were a few months where I was smoking pot quite frequently, so you never know.

The thing is, I never got punished for any of these infractions. Because despite the stupidity of my actions, I was smart about one thing—I never told my parents about any of it until years later. (Some of it will still surprise them.) If they had known about the shoplifting, for instance, they would certainly have turned me in. My father loves to tell about the time when he was a boy and got caught stealing chocolate-covered ants, which I think were highly rationed even after World War II or something. Given his own history, he’d have had no choice but to rat me out.

Which is how I think about my daughter, Sasha. She’s just 1 now, and incapable of doing evil (at least intentionally). But one day she will, and I want her to know that if I discover her misdeeds, she will be brought to justice, either at my hands or those of the authorities (whom I actually deeply mistrust but somehow assume will help me out). I have no other choice.

But I also want her to know that it’s her duty as a child, or teenager, or young adult, to keep things from me, whether they’re trivial breaches (a skipped class) or more serious (stolen porn, Al Qaeda membership). This is, as far as I’m concerned, part of the process of growing up—one has to separate oneself, step by step, from one’s parents, financially, emotionally and every other -ly way. If that means keeping secrets about bad shit, so be it. I understand.

But it will also be important for her to realize that honesty matters, too. And I don’t mean honesty in the sense that she should tell me everything, get punished, get forgiven, blah blah blah. I mean that it’s surprisingly easy to keep secrets and tell lies, and a more serious challenge to live a life that doesn’t require fibs and treachery at all. I hope Sasha will be up for that kind of test.

Because if she isn’t, it’s extrajudicial rendition for her. And no cookies.